Like the Sea Before a Storm
by theyoungwillower
Summary: Annie Cresta never expected Finnick Odair to come back into her life. But when she is suddenly thrown into his, how will the once friends cope? Annie is reaped into the 70th Hunger games, Finnick is her mentor. -won't be updated until abut 6-8 or 6-9 due to my being out of town. But don't worry I haven't given up n Annie and Finnick just yet!-
1. Meeting Again

_Authors Note: Hello everyone and thank you so much for reading my story. A few words first off. Finnick never dies. Ever. It didn't happen, I love him too much. Next, this is the first fanfiction I've written, and honestly the first thing I've written for fun in years. I'm rusty. Don't hate. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Hating is not. And please, if you have the time just review and tell me what you think. And finally, thanks again!_

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It is early morning. A warm breeze drafts across the ocean, scattering rays of orange-pink light across the waves. Watching the beginnings of the sunrise on the horizon, I prepare to dive into the morning water. For a moment my muscles tense, and then I fly, suspended, above the sea. As I enter the waves, I can't help but feel at home. The tension in my muscles release as I focus on my strokes and rhythm. I flow with the sea. I'm a part of it, just another wave journeying to the shore.

After a while I swim back in, toweling off my permanently salt-encrusted hair. For a few moments I close my eyes, basking in the early morning glow. I listen to the sea gulls cry, flapping their wings on a warm breeze. The normally uninterrupted sounds of nature are broken by a door slamming shut. My brow furrows. Save for the fishermen, it is too early for District 4 to be awake. But, I remember, today isn't a normal day. A few voices register as children run into town, gathering last minute necessities for the festivities. Today is Reaping Day. I don't have long to dwell on its meaning until I am interrupted.

"Good morning"

I open my eyes, registering the voice. Familiar. Friendly. Next to me, a man sits. It alarms me for a moment, that I didn't register his approach, but, soon, I realize that was probably his intention. My eyes readjust slowly to the light, taking in details of the man silhouetted against the sun. Slowly, tanned skin tinted orange and disorderly red hair visualizes. When he turns his head to me, it isn't hard to imagine why so many women are enchanted by his sea-green eyes.

"Morning." I reply. I don't let my shock register on my face. Finnick Odair is the last person I expected to run into this morning.

Before his reaping we were close friends. Inseparable, really. At 12 and 14, we had nothing to do but spend innocent summer days along the beaches of District 4. It was during this time that he taught me to swim. I taught him to knot fishing nets. Neither of us expected the outcome of the reaping that year. I remember watching, anxiously, as he fought for his life in The Hunger Games. When he returned we tried to go back to normal. And for a time, we were the same friends that had once spent hours together. But there was a growing distance. Then one day, not long after he turned 16, Finnick changed. He became reserved, reclusive. Ignored my calls, my knocks on his door in the Victor's Village. He no longer associated with his friends from home. He began taking frequent trips to the Capitol, gone even for weeks at a time. I was hurt, for a while. But eventually I accepted that Finnick had moved on, and chosen the whimsical citizens of the capitol, over the people of his own district.

So, for the past three years, Finnick and I had rarely spoken. I became accustomed to seeing only the cocky demeanor he displayed on television. I can't deny that I felt betrayed by my once friend, but just as he had changed, I had grown. I was no longer the knobby-kneed 14 year old girl who had tried to remain his friend. He was no longer the boy who had teased me and pushed me jokingly into the ocean.

I should be angry with him. But something about this moment keeps me sitting next to him on the beach, like nothing has changed.

A silent few minutes pass, before I look over at him again. There is something different about him, here, in the early morning sun. His usually happy expression is gone. I watch as his eyes scan the horizon. There is no trace of his normal laughing demeanor. No trace of cockiness.

"Are you okay, Finnick?"

Thousands of emotions flick across his face. For a moment I think he might yell, or scream, or cry. I half expect him to simply ignore my question.

So, forgive me for being utterly astounded when I'm confronted with a hysterical, laughing Finnick Odair sprawled across the sand. He laughs for what seems like hours, tears streaming down his face. The sound catches a few glances from people walking by. No sane person laughs like that on reaping day. Finally he catches his breath, and rests his arms under his head. He lays like that for a few moments, simply regarding the sky, and the turns his head, looking up at me.

"I'd say I'm about as far away from okay as you can get, Cresta."

As long as I've known Finnick, he has hardly ever called me by my first name. Always Cresta. Despite its formality, it has never felt anything but casual. Teasing almost, like he could call me that simply because he was older than me. A term of endearment. I don't know how to respond to his statement. He hasn't torn his gaze away from me, and for some reason simply staring at Finnick Odair makes me uncomfortable, so I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Why?"

I regret it instantly. The smile drains from his face, and even the slightest trace of his laugh sinks into the sand. As the tide rises, he doesn't acknowledge that his dress clothes are becoming soaked in sea water. He looks back out to the sea, and our eyes are locked again on the horizon.

"If I told you, then I'd have to kill you" he says.

I know he means to lighten the mood with the cliché. But as our eyes meet again I notice that his usual teasing demeanor is no longer there. So I simply regard him for a second. His eyes, the color of the sea before a storm, reflect pain. Memories of his own forced entry to the games, and those since him, will be prominent today. He'd been unlucky, on that reaping day. There had been no Career boys willing to step up for the 70th Hunger Games. He hadn't wanted this life.

After a long span of silence, he turns his head back to me. "You know, I've missed this, Cresta." It is all he says. No specification and he doesn't need one. I know he is talking about our forgotten friendship, the easy camaraderie we once shared, and an innocent youth spent swimming.

"Me too." I finally reply. I look down at my feet, suddenly unable to suppress as smile. The slamming of another door sobers me. Reaping Day. Looking at the sun, I realize I have to get home, before my mother throw a fit. I stand, and look down at Finnick. "Be… safe, Finnick." I all I can think to say.

He smiles, and rises. Suddenly that capitol-ized version of Finnick takes over again "Well, may the odds be ever in your favor today." He says teasingly, mocking the Capitol accent. But, as he walks away, I can't help but notice that his smile doesn't reach his eyes.


	2. Something New

Back at home, I don't have much time to think about my brief encounter with Finnick. The house is abuzz with preparations for the Reaping. My mother runs to and fro, preparing today's outfits for my family members. My father and older brother, James, simply laugh and nod as she exclaims "Now, Jamie, this color will go wonderful with your eyes!" I smile, knowing that both of them could care less about fashion. As could I. Climbing the stairs to my room I am nervous to see what kind of dress my mother has laid out for me, wary of her usual styling. Ever since I turned 15 I've been subject to mandatory "dates". My mother finds "eligible and highly approvable" bachelors, most of whom I resent greatly, and sends me to have dinner with them. Often this means parading around town in a slightly revealing dress. Needless to say, I hate the experiences.

Instead on my bed I find one of the most gorgeous items I've ever seen. It's simple, but flowingly elegant. It looks blatantly out of place in my slightly disorganized, masculine bedroom. "Wow… this is…"

"Gorgeous? That's because I picked it out."

Whipping around, I am greeted by a proud woman with long silver hair braided down her back and permanently tan skin. "Ama!", I exclaim raising my eyebrows. " I didn't think you would be back today."

My grandmother crosses the room, opening her arms for an embrace. "I never miss a reaping, Annie."

It's true. My grandfather was the victor of the 18th Hunger games. As a mentor and past victor, he was never allowed to miss a reaping. Since his death two years ago, my grandmother has honored this commitment for him, and occasionally the more recent victors seek her advice before mentoring, knowing that she has her husband's knowledge.

I smile sadly, knowing how much she misses my grandfather, especially during the Games. "Did you pick this out, Ama?" I ask, gesturing to the garment on the bed.

She laughs. "Well, really your grandfather picked it out. He bought that for me on the way back from one of his trips to the Capitol. He said the color reminded him so much of home, like…"

"The sea before a storm?" I question. I try not to think to long on the circumstances in which I saw the color this morning.

She grins. "Exactly. Now hurry, try it on, or your mother will have a fit. I'll be back in a moment." She says, exiting the room. I listen to her heels clop down the stairs, and turn back to the dress.

The dress slips through my fingers as I lift it off the bed. I know instantly it is of Capitol make, as the fabric is like nothing I've ever encountered in District 4 or even the textile imported from the other districts. It flows like silk, shines like satin, and clings to my frame like cotton. The neckline is a square scoop, which is conservative, but still shows skin appropriate for my age. From the 2 inch wide straps dangles a sheer ribbon, matching exactly to the hue of the dress. At the end of each small ring is visible.

"You put them on your finger, like this." Says my grandmother, noticing my confused expression as she walks back into the room. I put the rings on my middle finger and look at my reflection. For a moment I feel that I have wings. I spin around in the dress, the knee-length cut swirling up around me. I laugh. The green colors shimmer, and the slight breeze coming through the open window catches the delicate ribbons, sending them billowing around me. The dress is much fancier than what you normally see at reapings, but I love it too much to care.

"It I gorgeous Ama, Grandpa had good taste."

She smiles, and then gestures for me to sit. After applying very subtle makeup, she twists my still damp hair into a donut-like bun, leaving a few strands in their natural wavy state around my face.

"This is how your mother should send you out to those god-awful dates. Not in those floozy little dresses that show everything!"

My face reddens. "Ama!" I shriek. She laughs. "Only being honest, sweetie. I know you don't pick them out."

I simply smile. I could never be angry with her for voicing something I've thought a thousand times. I look at myself again in the mirror. It is strange seeing someone so confident and strong. For once, I can see myself as someone desirable. Turning back to my grandmother I look at my feet.

"I don't have any shoes." I say gesturing over to my worn, leather sandals on the bed. Despite my mother's protests, I hardly ever wear anything else.

"Oh don't worry about shoes. No one film's the crowds' shoes!"

"You are right as always, Ama."

My grandmother smiles knowingly. "The check-ins start in 15 minutes. You better go show your mother your outfit before she has a heart attack."

"Right. I'll see you later. We can stop by the café afterward, and you can tell me about your trip to the Capitol." For a moment I see something flash in her eyes. Fear. As I leave the room I catch a whisper.

"I hope so, Annie."


	3. Because Sky Blue isn't Right

After going through the check-in process I wait with the other girls my age, sighing as they fidget and whisper nervously to their neighbors. I know that the two girls on either side of me have no chance of going to the arena. Their name will be in the minimum number of times. Just as mine is. Besides, District 4 almost always has a volunteer. I roll my eyes as they whisper to each other "Oh, I hope it isn't me, I hope it isn't me." I want to slap both of them. They are only spreading nervousness to the younger children, and a growing feeling of anxiety is palpable. Wanting to distract myself from the hushed conversations I scan the square, eyes stopping on the stage. Mayor Thacklan and his wife sit, furthest to the right, near the screen that will play this year's propaganda. Amaria, their daughter is no longer sitting with them. She must finally have aged into the reaping pool. For a moment, I feel a slight pull of sympathy, noticing Mrs. Thacklan's nervousness, but that is eradicated when Mayor Thacklan exchanges bets with a peacekeeper, likely over the children to be reaped.

Sitting next to Mrs. Thacklan is Mags, a previous victor. She is in her late 70s, small with dark gray hair. All I know of her is that Mags won the 15th Hunger Games. Vaguely I remember something about her being the only victor never having to kill a tribute to win. And finally my eyes drift over to Finnick. He sits next to Mags, conversing quietly with her. His red-brown hair catches the sunlight, and he wears a new set of unsoiled dress clothes. Even from this far distance, it is easy to tell that he has regained the demeanor I have been so accustomed to seeing from afar. I realize that this is the 5th consecutive year he has been a mentor, which is unique. I know that there are many other victors in our district to choose from. As I begin to wonder whether he is forced into mentoring or if he chooses to, Charles Litling, the District 4 escort stands from the other side of Finnick, leaning down to whisper something to him. Finnick gives a good natured smile, and then sits up straight, cutting his conversation with Mags short. Charles crosses to the microphone, dressed in what appears to be an attempt to symbolize the ocean. He wears a few silvery-white sea animals in his plastered hair, which is standing nearly straight up in a way that reminds me of a volcano. His skin is unnaturally pale, and coming from me, that is saying something, as I have the lightest skin in District 4. I notice that he has tried very hard to wear blue, most likely in an attempt to symbolize water. However, anyone from our district would know that water isn't really blue, at least here in the ocean. But Charles is wearing blue. Sky blue. He looks like some creature out of air, rather than water. Briefly I wonder if he has ever bothered to even visit the ocean, in all his years of escorting.

He clears his throat as he reaches for the microphone. Charles is a bit taller than average, but so skinny that I'm worried a single gust of wind will cause him to topple off the stage. His voice is slightly wavering, almost like he is deciding whether or not to sing his welcome into the microphone.

"District 4. It is a pleasure to see you all again for another year. I am excited to welcome you all to the opening ceremonies of the 70th Hunger Games!" he pauses, obviously waiting for applause that doesn't come. He, however, doesn't seem to notice. "I know we are all eagerly anticipating the revealing of District 4's tributes, but I can't let you know those names just yet." He exclaims, almost laughing. "First, let's watch this year's wonderful documentary, a special gift from the Capitol!" I laugh under my breath at his enthusiasm. He almost prances back to his seat as the Capitol anthem begins to play.

I let my eyes wander again, not bothering to pay attention. In the row in front of me, a few feet to my left, Hilary Ryan wrings her hands nervously. I know her from school, though not particularly personally. We worked briefly on a project together, and I taught her younger sister to swim last summer, along with a slew of other 12 year olds. She's kind, kinder than most in her situation. At 16, I know that she must have her name in the maximum number of times. Both of her parents were killed in a fishing accident when she was 13, forcing her to feed her two younger siblings with tesserae. She is dressed in a faded, holey, overly large grey dress that I assume was once her mother's. I'm so enveloped in watching Hilary, shifting nervously from side to side, that I don't realize the video is over when Charles steps forward again. "Of course, ladies first!" he exclaims, in a tone that implies we didn't already know the order in which the drawings occurred. My heart begins to race.

I keep watching Hilary, and suddenly I feel her anxiety grow. I realize that if she is reaped, her family will starve. I close my eyes, silently hoping she isn't picked. Telling myself that a career would volunteer for the poor starving girl. The crowd falls silent, and my mind is so full of the mental image of Hilary's younger sibling emaciated, lying cold on the beach that I miss the name. My eyes fly open, locking on Hilary's face. I see relief. She wasn't picked. Then slowly her face changes and she turns back, looking at me. Why me? I turn, to see if perhaps the twittering girls beside me have fainted. But they simply stare at me, eyes wide, scuttling away from me like I have a contagious flu. Eventually every row turns to look at me. I nearly ask what is wrong with everybody, and then the moment I missed from a few moments ago plays again in my mind. I hear the clear tone of my name again. "Well, come one, Miss Cresta." Cries an impatient Charles Litling from the stage.

Automatically this term, before used only as endearment, pulls me out of my dazed state. He called my name. I turn briefly to scan the crowd, focusing on the careers. Someone must be ready this year. Someone has to volunteer. Briefly I seek each of them out. Some stare at the ground. A few smile at me, with snake like eyes. One even has the audacity to wave mouthing a vehement "Bye Bye."

I should have been angry, scared, or even shocked. I begin walking woards the stage, and suddenly I'm surrounded by the white suits of peacekeepers. I smell the distinct scent of rubber and plastic as they march me to the stage. I don't realize I've mounted the stairs until I meet Mayor Thacklan's eyes. He nods to the microphone, and I see him smile. He must have betted on a 17 year old girl, this year. As I cross the stage, I look at the mentors. My mentors. Mags remains impassive, simply watching me. Then I meet Finnick's eyes. For a moment, he is shocked, and then he closes his eyes, and stares straight ahead away from me. No acknowledgment that he knows who I am. I should have known. He isn't going to admit he knows some lowly District 4 citizen, even if he once was one himself.

"Ah, there she is." Charles croons, grabbing my arm and pulling me quickly to the stage. "We've got a pretty one this year! Everyone a hand for Miss Annie Cresta!"

A few people clap, and it dies out rapidly. I simply stare ahead.

"And now, for the gentlemen." Cries Charles, gently, but obviously tugging me away from the front of the stage. I watch as he crosses the stage again, the bright sky-blue color standing out distinctly from the greys, greens, and navies of the people around him. His hand doesn't fish in the bowl as it normally does, and I barely register the motion as it jumps in and out of the bowl. The white paper flutters in the wind. As he crosses, again, I notice that he does seem to be making an attempt to staying upright, as if the wind will truly blow him away.

"Tremlin Pierce"

For a moment, I can't place the name. Then I watch as the crowd parts for another 17 year old. Tremlin Pierce. If I weren't in the same situation I may have laughed. Tremlin Pierce is as far as you can get from the typical District 4 tribute. He's skinny, tiny, and oh-so very rich. My family may be well off, but the Tremlins outrun us any day. They own half of the fishing and netting industry. Tremlin is, from what I hear, the exact replica of his father. Snotty. Arrogant. Cocky. My mother once set one of my "dates" up with his mother. Grudgingly I went to the town café to meet Tremlin. After I sat down, he didn't acknowledge me, eyes remaining on the menu. "I'll have you know, I don't want to be here. I may be an eligible bachelor, but I won't go slumming around with just anyone. Besides, I would never be seen with anyone of such a… low caliber. I don't know how your mother coerced mine into setting this up, but please, dispel any fantasies of this ever being more than a forced dinner between two entirely different people." He had stated this with bluntness so sharp I had simply looked at him. Finally he had the decency to raise his eyes, with an expression that said he was annoyed at my existence. "Well?" he had questioned at my expression. I laughed, loudly and pointedly at him. Then I had stood, grabbed my bag, and walked out of the restaurant. Needless to say I never spoke to him again.

Still, I'm astounded when no one volunteers. I know that many of the Career boys are 17. Some have been training since they could walk. Are they simply wanting to wait another year, or are they too so astounded by the uncharacteristic reaping that they are frozen in place? Pierce actually looks at one and says, in a voice equally as high pitched as I remember it "Well, go ahead, volunteer!". The boy who I recognize as Sylvester Jacobs, simply looks at him, and shakes his head. If I didn't loath Pierce, I would feel sorry for him as the color drains from his face. It takes the Peace Keepers a few moments to drag him onto the stage.

"Well, this year is definitely a unique year for District 4." cries Charles. "Shake hands!" he says after a pause, in a way that insinuates he is astounded we haven't yet.

Pierce turns, and I wait for some form of recognition to cross his face, but he doesn't even meet my eyes. We shake hands, his I notice are cold and clammy, and then I'm whisked off stage, into the Justice building.


	4. Memories in Red

_Thank you to everyone who has read my story so far! I promise there will be some Finnick and Annie moments coming up! Again please feel free to review, and tell me what you do and don't like about the story._

_Also a special shout out to my first ever favourite "finewithbeingateennot". I appreciate the support. _

_~TheYoungWillower_

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In any other situation I would simply admire the halls I am currently being forced to walk through. The peace keepers lead me through a maze of white walls, accented with paintings of sailboats, the occasional glamorized fishing net, or portraits of prominent people I recognize vaguely from my history book. After what seems like hours, I realize we have stopped trudging through the hallway. Looking back, I see that my sandals have left dirt on the floor. For some reason, I'm delighted at this idea. Then, I see a white glove throw open a tall, red door and I'm carelessly shoved towards it. No sooner have I stepped inside than I hear the lock click behind me.

Foolishly, I test the lock. For a moment my heart skips a beat, when I don't meet resistance. Then the handle stops and the door remains closed. I feel panicked suddenly, like a caged animal. After taking in my surroundings I sit in a red leather chair on the far side of my little prison. Everything here is red. The carpet, the walls. It is so unlike everything else in District 4, with the subtle hues of the ocean. So I focus on the color of my dress. But even it, reflecting the red light coming from the walls, looks odd. The color reminds me of sea water filled with blood, after a baby seal has been torn apart by a shark or whale. My hands begin to shake violently, and I notice a tear drop stains my dress.

_ No! _I jump from the chair, pacing again. I can't fall apart. Not in front of mother, father, or even Jamie. I have to be strong, I have to….

My thoughts are interrupted as the door opens. Two figures are shoved into the red room. My mother actually takes the time to look affronted. Snapping back at the guards, "We know how to walk you idiot!" I take her distraction the opportunity to wipe any tears from my face. When my parents turn to me I give a half-hearted smile. I brace myself for my mother's hysterical sobbing, or my father's cold, detached stare that he usually has when receiving bad news. Instead, it is my father that embraces me first. "Oh, Annie, I'm so sorry. If I would've known… you could've been trained, or at least had a few lessons. I never…"

His voice is laden with guilt.

"Dad. Daddy, stop. I'll be okay. I'm smart, I can swim, I can knot. I can even use a lance sometimes, remember?" I say, my attempts to console my father, reminding him that I'm not dead yet. He nods, and I hold onto him for a few moments, before he backs away giving my mother room to crowd me. I'm not prepared for her smothering grip, but I don't protest. "Oh, and look how pretty you are today, Annie!. I can't believe I'll never get to see you married off. After all these years of…"

"Mother. Can we for once, not talk about marriage? Please." I mean for my voice to come out jokingly, but instead it wavers. When I finally look into her eyes they are filled with tears. "Oh. Of course, I'm sorry." She backs up, knowing our time is almost gone. I smile at my parents. "I love you both, so much. I'll try my hardest. Tell Jamie I love him."

"We will, kiddo." Says my father, tears streaming down his face. I smile and cling to him again. "And dad, don't think too hard about anything you see on television." He laughs, but it is edged with sorrow, and then suddenly my parents are torn from me. I want to call out in protest, but instead I try to swallow every last detail of them, embedding their faces in my memory. Almost as soon as the door closes, it opens again revealing the person I've wanted to see since Charles called my name.

"Ama." I smile. She simply holds her arms out again, and I run to her, holding on for dear life. "Ama… I'm scared." I say, finally voicing my own personal fears, rather than consoling my parents. I know that she won't need the strong Annie. She can take care of herself. "I know sweetie, I know." She says, and takes a few moments to stroke my hair. Then she pushes away, and her gaze holds me steady. "Now, I need you to listen carefully. Finnick will be your mentor, I'm sure of it. Mags will be the only one who has the patience to deal with that awful Pierce child. You and I both know Finnick well." I raise my eyebrows, surprised, not knowing my grandmother to have really ever associated with Finnick. She shakes her head, indicating that there is no time for questions. "Ask him, sweetie. Trust him. He knows what to do. Though you aren't as close as you once were, he knows you too Annie. That is an advantage." She smiles. I nod mutely. "Finally, listen to what your heart tells you, inside and outside of the arena. That is the one part of you they can't change." She says with a smile.

Her last piece of advice confuses me slightly but I nod. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and she pulls me back into her embrace. "You can do this Annie, I know it." She whispers. We hear the door click open, and I cling tighter to her. "I love you Ama!" I say forcefully as they begin to pull her away. I meet her eyes as they pull her from the room, before she can utter a sound. But I see everything I need in my grandmother's eyes.

I wait for a few moments, but I can't think of anyone else who will come and visit. So instead, I sit back down in the red chair, my nails leaving runs in the leather. The door opens, and the Peace Keeper beckons me out. I feeling nothing but relief to leave the red room behind.


	5. In the Blink of an Eye

_Hello again! First off, I can only say that I am astounded by number of views this story has gotten in such a short time. This is my first time writing on ... and I have to say I'm enjoying it. However, I would really love some reviews or messages, as I know there are a billion things you all will notice, that I never could!_

_Also, this is just a short little snippet of a chapter. I'm procrastinating writing the train scenes, because, well they involve Finnick. And I don't want the story to shift to badly... but I also want to write about Finnick! Can you tell he's my favourite?_

_Thanks again. ~TheYoungWillower_

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Outside the room I'm instantly and enthusiastically greeted by my escort. He grabs my hand, tugging me away from the door. "Oh, Miss Cresta, I am so glad that we have a pretty tribute for a change!" he gushes. "Your stylist will no doubt turn you into something worth looking at!" I feel offended for a moment, but shrug of the comment, unsure if it was actually meant to be an insult. "We just have to wait a few more moments for Mr. Pierce…."

Charles rattles on about "this wonderful opportunity, food, and Capitol fashions. I know I should be concentrating, but instead I find myself focusing on the sea crab ornament in his hair. Nestled securely in his powder blue doo, which I'm convinced is a wig, I wonder whether it was once alive, or if it is simply a product of District 1. My question is answered when the ornament blinks at me. I'm so stunned by this development that I don't notice Tremlin's entrance until I'm pulled to my feet. His eyes are red, but his face is dry. He doesn't even glance at me, before Charles is already tugging us along the corridor. "Oh, you are in for such a treat!" he practically sings.

We are led out of a back door, straight to the boarding area of the train station. The dirt platform clings to my sandals as a result of last night's rain. Our escort seems insistent upon our departure, but I stop on the stairs leading to the train. "Just a minute, Chalres." He turns to me, giving me a scathing look that screams at me about schedules. I give my best imitation of a begging child when I utter a soft, "Please?". His eyes soften, "Well, alright, but you must be on the train in 30 seconds time, or we will leave without you!" he says while dragging a reluctant Tremlin Pierce onto the train.

How I wish that was true.

So, I turn away from the train, taking in the morning sky. I watch a gull fly through the air, yelling for one of its flock. My eyes follow the lonely bird until it disappears behind the Justice building. Once I can't hear it any long I close my eyes, taking in the smells of my home. Salty sea air. A cool breeze riddled with the scents of celebration and relief. Damp sand from an incoming tide.

It isn't long before I hear the train start to creek forward. I contemplate simply remaining in my spot, rooted on the shiny, metal stairs forever. But when I open my eyes, there are at least a dozen peace keepers watching me, guns at the ready.

I give my best winning smile, flash a slightly rude gesture to them, and then turn and walk onto the train car before they realize what happened. As the train pulls from the station I catch one final glimpse of the ocean, and then I'm whisked away from my home.


	6. Authors Note- Please View

_Hi Everyone! Sorry there is no new chapter yet, but I wanted to poll you all to ask a question about the story. I'm thinking about doing a few chapters on the train from Finnick's point of view (to explain his withdrawl from Annie's life, how he feels about mentoring her, etc). I also might do the chapters in the games, or at least a few of them, from his point of view as a mentor. Let me know what you think._

_Oh, and please please please review! I really do want to become a better writer, and I know there are areas I can improve upon. If you don't want to critique I also take compliments ;)._

_~The Young Willower_


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